inkstained fingertips
by shen salazar
Summary: the rain’s coming, and it’s coming for you. — or ging finds out he’s fictional. vignette.


**in continents we burn,** and the ocean's on fire.

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 _inkstained fingertips_

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( you're a character, you're not real. )

Ink.

Fresh, black ink, seared down the sink, and it shouldn't have burned _so_ bad, but it _does_ , and Ging clutches his left hand that reminds him too much of crackling flames and burning flesh — but that wasn't flesh Ging's got in his hand, yes? Flesh doesn't burn when you try to wash it with water, flesh doesn't melt when you open the faucet.

Ging doesn't panic, but his mind whirls. It's crazy, it is, he knows that, and there's too much going on. The water's still running and Ging promptly turns it off with his right hand, and droplets clung to his fingers and it _burns_. No, no— he's stupid, and now his hands are like saturated ink, pouring, thawing, pools of the jet black liquid forming at his feet.

That can't be the end, his hands couldn't be gone, stop, _stop, stop_ the water, Ging chants in his head, and he's starting to panic now. The shower's turned on miraculously — he couldn't have done it — how could he, when his hands had melted off?

Ging felt his face get sprinkled with stray water, and he screamed. Oh God, his face burns. Everything's on fire, he thought, this is a nightmare. He should get out of here. _Out, out, out_ — and Ging runs. Kicks the door, sprints, _jumps_. Anything to get away from what it felt like was a sea of flames.

Immediately, Ging regrets coming outside.

It's raining.

And the water's like acid, it scorches whatever was left of Ging's skin. It feels both hot and cold, and if it was any other day Ging would have cackled. But it wasn't just any other day. It was today, the day where the ocean was on eternal fire, the day where flames created a downpour. It was like someone set fire to the rain — literally, realistically, and horrifyingly.

Everything burned.

And Ging with it.

He felt it — fading away from existence, not even passing as ashes but nothing — slowly merging with the fire, a scalding form of adam's ale swirling with pitch black ink.

But as he thought he was dying, in the most unconventional, unideal way — Ging felt himself being rewritten. Like a script, like a sketch that was erased because it was wrong being redrawn. It was his feet first. Then his whole body.

The ink reforms itself, and Ging opened his eyes, the same ones that were once gone, to the blearing light. It wasn't raining anymore. He was in his room, spread out on his forest green sheets. (Why was he back _here_? And why.. why was everything so cold?)

And suddenly, Mito was springing through his door, a frantic look on her face, "Ging! Your wife is in labor next door, you oaf! Seriously, where were you?!"

Where was he?

That.. that was a good question.

"I don't know where.. I am."

Mito only looked at him condescendingly, sniffing, "Don't be an idiot. Your child's probably born now, and you missed it all!"

Oh, right.

He, Ging, was now a father, wasn't he?

That doesn't make sense. He just died a second ago. This wasn't real. He's just a puppet, he's a sketch, an inked being, there's _someone_ out there. Someone made him a father. It wasn't him. No, not Ging. He's just a human full of ink.

The ink only reformed to something solid, something concrete — but something that wasn't real.

Without knowing, Ging was already in the room where his child was born, and where his wife died in labor. (Or maybe he shouldn't call her a wife, they never really knew each other, after all).

"I'm sorry, Ging, she died giving birth to your child," the woman had said, "But, congratulations. It's a boy."

A boy.

His son?

He was probably just another inked being, something that'll burn, _burn, burn_ — and Ging doesn't want to watch that happen. He doesn't want to be there. The people inside the room had left, and Ging was left alone with his son. (Son? _His_? Nothing was his now. Nothing real).

Ging can't deal with something fake.

Something too much like him.

 _And you're going up in flames too_ , he says to his son as he takes him outside to see the sun. _Not in ashes, but in ink_.

"Gon, you're going to be Gon," he decides, finally.

And Ging leaves his son to Mito, knowing fully well that no matter what he does, Gon's fate wasn't in his control, neither was his own, in a world of ink.

Ging leaves and goes on the greatest detour of his life, wanting to find the meaning to the word 'real'.

(He never finds it.)

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[s.] _ging washes with water and he melts in ink. and he knows he's nothing but fictional: a sketch, a drawing, an inked being._


End file.
